


The Letter

by servantofclio



Series: Rory and Simon Trevelyan [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: Only just arrived for the Exalted Council, Dorian receives a letter than changes everything.





	The Letter

_The Archon congratulates you on your recent elevation_ _…_

_… appointment to the Magisterium as sole heir of the recently deceased Magister Halward Pavus…_

_… investiture on your return from your embassy…_

Dorian read the letter a second time, and then a third, frowning as he parsed each sentence. He would have thought someone was having him on, if not for the seal.

The seal was heavy, entirely official and proper and weighted with a magical aura. Straight from the Archon’s chancery.  

It was certainly the most peculiar “condolences on your father’s recent and unexpected demise” notice he’d ever encountered.

Funny, he’d always vaguely assumed he’d been disinherited, as his father had threatened. Surprises never ceased. But here it was, official, legal assurance that his father had never taken that step. Had perhaps, at the last, thought Dorian a worthy heir.

His eyes burned, and something like rage clotted his throat. Whether it was anger at his father, or at whomever had cut him down, Dorian couldn’t say. He’d hardly even spoken to his father since returning to the Imperium. Their encounters had been brief and stiffly civil. For the best, he’d thought. Father had said little about Dorian’s choices, and Dorian had swallowed down betrayal like hot lead, and put on a smile.

The thought of never speaking to him again, though; not by his choice, but because the choice had been stripped from him… that, Dorian didn’t know how to feel about.

He hadn’t supposed that he’d been holding onto any hope of reconciliation, but the sharp end to that possibility felt like a blow all the same.  

He wasn’t, he told himself, mourning the shattered relationship they’d had. There was little enough to mourn, there. But he did grieve the one he wished they could have had, the one where his father was mentor and ally, where they met for civilized evenings of wine and discussion.

He couldn’t ever forgive his father for what he’d done, nor what he’d tried to do, but he was not — had not been — altogether a bad man. Stubborn, high-handed, arrogant, overconfident, proud, yes, but every word Dorian thought to say about his father, he could as well say to his mirror.

There might come a time, perhaps, when he could remember the father of his youth – the pride in his eyes, the fondness in his voice, the lessons he’d taught – without bitterness.

Might. That time hadn’t come yet.

In the meantime, there was the letter, holding out the glittering, poisonous promise of a magisterial seat. Building a coalition in the Magisterium was precisely what he and Mae had been working for in the last year and a half, after all, and here was a seat all unexpected fallen into their laps. And what timing, how peculiarly convenient, with Dorian out of the country —

Ah. That would be the reason the ambassadorial appointment had come through so quickly and without warning, then. He’d thought it a sort of backhanded compliment at the time, or possibly an elaborate form of insult, but Father must have had a hand in it. One last string to pull and get Dorian out of the way of whatever was coming. Which meant he’d _known_ something was coming, and hadn’t bothered informing Dorian. Of course not, why should he do a thing like that? That might require allowing Dorian to _choose_ things. Couldn’t have that.

That raised the question, though, of what information might be waiting in his father’s study, even now. Probably under a magical seal only Dorian could open. He fingered the chain of his amulet absent-mindedly, considering. Under any other circumstances, Dorian would have started home immediately to ransack the study and identify the killers as quickly as possible.

And take up his magisterial seat. That trifling little business.

Under _these_ circumstances, though, that speedy return home simply wasn’t possible. He’d arrived at Halamshiral scarcely two days previous, the Exalted Council hadn’t even begun its deliberations, and the Inquisition was expected this very afternoon.

_Amatus_ , he thought, and with that, the letter’s promise hung like a sentence. He’d thought he might linger a week or two, once the Council was done, perhaps find a plausible excuse to stay in the south a little longer. No more of that, alas, and his journeys outside the Imperium were likely to be curtailed for the foreseeable future; a reprobate of an altus could get away with a good deal more than a sitting magister.

He swore softly, under his breath. Months since they’d last seen each other, and two weeks of keen anticipation; Dorian had awakened this morning _happy_ , half giddy with the knowledge that only hours separated them now, that by nightfall he would have a chance to embrace and be embraced, to hear his beloved’s voice and smile into his eyes.

And then the knock on his door, and the letter, and it seemed a few snatched moments here and there might have to sustain them. Conceivably, for the next few years.

_Years._ He set the letter down, at the far edge of the gilded writing-desk, as if that might free him from the letter’s leash. Every particle of him revolted at the prospect of spending more years separated.

And yet. Surely the fate of the world, the careful work of building and changing, mattered more than two people’s happiness.

Or at least, so he’d been telling himself for the last two years.

Neither that high-minded ideal, nor the knowledge that he’d _chosen_ this path, was precisely consolation for the absence of warm skin against his own, or a low voice in his ear. Especially if that absence were to continue indefinitely.

He pushed himself out of the desk chair, its legs scraping against the tile, and paced, wishing for a convenient demon to dismantle, or a library to tear apart, or at least a convenient Orlesian to verbally flay.

As if all of this weren’t bad enough, there was the Inquisition’s current trial. Trial felt far more accurate than council; Dorian couldn’t say he was surprised to find the rulers of the south turning on an upstart institution grown powerful so quickly, but he hadn’t realized the severity of the situation until he’d arrived at Halamshiral. He’d come expecting to be amused by the sight of Cassandra in that ridiculous headdress, only to find her tight-lipped and eyeing the Fereldan and Orlesian ambassadors as if she wished to wallop them upside the head. Dorian couldn’t blame her, after listening to the Arl’s bluster and the Duke’s oily pretense at friendship. He had responded with a more partisan defense of the Inquisition than a foreign ambassador should hold, strictly speaking, but his former affiliation with the Inquisition was no secret, and Cassandra had seemed approving.

Still, the Inquisition’s position was precarious. Moreover, the fact that Dorian had had letters from both twins in the last year, and yet hadn’t been fully aware of the political currents, was a bad sign. It meant either that the twins weren’t aware themselves, or that there were things Dorian wasn’t being told.

He didn’t particularly like that concept.

He’d scoured through his bundled letters, in fact, reading between the lines for anything else he might have missed. Rory’s neat, scholarly letters were full of news and theorizing; Simon’s sprawling, idiosyncratically spelled missives lacked for neither ardor nor humor, but….

There might be… something. A touch of distance? Simply the desire to talk about anything other than business? Enervation, as the weight of the Inquisition wore down the Inquisitor?

Or perhaps it was simply Dorian’s overactive imagination, reading things that weren’t there.

He stopped, staring out the window into the sun-filled gardens. Pruned and manicured in a very Orlesian style, with neatly trimmed hedges, artfully trained climbing vines, ladies in stiff full skirts and gentlemen in padded doublets strolling the paths. And masks, masks everywhere.

The reunion he’d been anticipating felt tarnished, now, with the news Dorian would have to share.

Simon would understand, of course. Perhaps too well. He’d said hardly a word of complaint about the separation all this time. Imagining his response, probably entirely reasonable, with just a touch of resignation, gave Dorian an unpleasant hollow feeling.

What they had would not, could not, simply fade into weary obsolescence, as duty and responsibility forced them into distance. Having gone to the trouble of finding each other, having survived by a hair’s edge too many times, Dorian would not allow this to wither any further.

His fingers closed around the crystal in his pocket. It would be enough, he hoped; enough to see them through whatever storms the Imperium and this blasted Exalted Council would throw at them.


End file.
